


I Thought You Were a Chic.

by HearMyWords



Category: South Park
Genre: First Meetings, Flirting, Gay/Bisexual, Goth Stan, I Don't Even Know, I'm going to fix that., Jersey Kyle, M/M, Nobody writes about this pairing WTF??, just go with it.
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-13
Updated: 2016-12-13
Packaged: 2018-09-08 10:22:37
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,223
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8840920
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HearMyWords/pseuds/HearMyWords
Summary: Stanley is getting coffee with his friends when some dude he's only ever seen a few times around school walks up to their table and makes himself at home. With fiery hair and a personality to match, Stan can't help but feel his stomach stir as he looks the boy deep in his emerald green eyes.





	

Henrietta and Micheal were in the middle of a deep conversation. Like, Pete's poems right after a _breakup_ deep. Granted, Stan wasn't entirely listening though. He had one headphone in his ear but from what  he could gather... some kid Micheal knew had recently committed suicide.

 

It was tragically beautiful. He thought. Stan envied them in a way. Even if he didn't know them. To take your life like that? To not give a fuck about any consequences and just  _do_ it. Life's a pointless cycle of clock in clock out until you die anyway; held at gunpoint to society's rifle until they print out more submissive copies to fill your place. Going out telling the world to fuck itself by ending it yourself? That... That was truly something.

 

He grinned at the thought of one day being able to do the same himself while sipping from his room temperature coffee when Pete suddenly jabbed him in the ribs.

 

Stan's brows furrowed, yanking out his headphone angrily. "Dude, what the fuck?" He growled, Pete gave him a stern look before motioning behind him.

 

Arching a brow Stan turned to see some kid with greased back fiery red hair wearing enough bling to burn the eyes out of a blind man's skull. He was standing with a bunch of girls, the sleeves of his shirt were torn or cut off and there was something written on his chest..? Stan squinted but couldn't make it out from afar. He turned back to Pete.

 

"What?" He asked, frustratingly tapping his black fingernails against the table.

 

Pete rolled his eyes and flicked his fringe out of his face, only for it to pointlessly go back to where it was. "Dude," He said. "that guy was _totally_ checking you out." He told him, Stan's face scrunched up in disbelief. Henrietta's head jerked towards them. "Who was checking who out?" Pete pointed to Stan. "Some poser over there was practically eye fucking him."

 

Stan groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose with a sigh. _"Pete,"_ He said, meeting his eyes. "shut up." Micheal snickered as Henrietta raised her brows with mild amusement.

 

Just then Firkle smacked the table with his hand and tilted his head, subtly pointing. Everyone at the table looked over to see the redheaded stranger heading straight towards them. "Fuck." Stan blurted out just before the guy stopped right in front if them, a brow quirked.

 

"Hey." He smiled, a Jersey accent notable by the way he rolled the simple word off of his tongue. Stan stared at him blankly along with the other goths, only flicking his eyes away when the stranger's green gaze became too much.

 

He briefly glanced at the writing on his shirt. It looked like someone wrote it in Sharpie of all things. Stan arched a brow. "Kiley-B..." He murmured quietly only to realize the boy heard him when he saw him grin.

 

Stan cleared his throat, feeling a bit embarrassed. He looked to see the stranger shrug his shoulders and slide hands into the back pockets of his jeans. Looking proud. "M'friends call me that." He said. "But you can call me _Kyle_." He winked, his voice making this sort of purr. Stan stared, hearing Pete and the others whisper around him in a frenzy. _No way..._ He thought. _Is he flirting with me?_

 

Stan didn't have time to consider such a possibility before his redheaded shadow spoke again. "So," He piped, "what's your name cutie?" He asked, arching a brown and biting his lip.

 

Stan's face immediately heated up and before he knew what he was doing he was sputtering out his name. "Um, I'm--..S-Stanley. *ahem* I meant Stan. Stan Marsh." He said, internally cringing.

 

He watched the guy-- _Kyle_ tilt his head. "Stan?" He repeated, pursing his lips before grinning. "Pfft, funny." He mused. "I thought you were a chic." Stan's eyes widened in horror. Hearing Henrietta chuckle before Pete and Firkle simultaneously shushed her.

 

Without any invitation Kyle suddenly slid into the booth, right beside Stan. "Ain't no problem though." He said, shrugging nonchalantly. Self confidence practically _oozing_ off of him. "I bat for both teams." He explained, raising his brows.

 

Stan could hardly breathe at this point.

 

Maybe it was all his body spray, or perhaps it was how he pronounced Stan's name. But the redhead was giving Stan this seriously sick feeling, tickling his stomach and making him want to throw up.

 

Now that he was closer Stan could see Kyle's diamond earrings twinkle, noticed his little freckles sprinkled across his cheekbones and of course his  _jawline._ Fuck that jawline... Stan was certain the emo kids could cut themselves on it if they tried. That thing was sharper than the knife Firkle bitched at his mom to buy off Amazon. Which, maybe wasn't the best choice of comparison but still. Fucking  _damn._

 

"So..." Kyle trailed off, arm propped on the back of the booth, just above Stan's shoulders. "Yous got a number I could call?"

 

Nodding Stan snatched one of Micheal's pens from across the table and jotted it down on a napkin before offering it to this dashing not-so stranger, who smiled before taking it. Sliding out of the booth. Leaving a cold empty feeling beside Stan from where he just was.

 

"Thanks." He chimed. "I'll text ya later _Stan._ " He winked, waving his hand as he turned on the heel of his _expensive_ looking red sneakers and heading back towards his entourage of squealing and annoying girls.

 

Stan watched him glace down at the napkin before stuffing into his back pocket, looking over his shoulder back at Stan with a brief smile. He merely just sat in place. Too in awe at what just happened to even remember to _blink_ for several seconds let alone wave in acknowledgment. 

 

"Well," Henrietta piped up. "that happened."

 

Micheal shrugged his shoulders. "Psht, poser." He scoffed just as Pete bumped shoulders with Stan, getting his attention. "You're not actually gonna talk to that guy right?"

 

Stan's face heated up for what had to be the fucking thousandth time and he fought to keep it visibly at bay. "W-what?!" He stammered, shaking his head and tucking a few dyed strands of hair behind his ear. "Pff, _no_." He said, wrapping his hands around his now coldcup of coffee.

 

"He's too much of a poser." He stated, faking the most unconvincing laugh he's ever had the displeasure of hearing himself create.

 

The others all stared at him. Stan tried to hold their gaze as his hands fidgeted nervously. Hoping if he did that much maybe they would consider believing him. Pete only nodded slowly. _"Right."_  He scoffed. Stan frowned.

 

"Oh fuck off." He sounded, looking down at his cup with creased brows. Pete just simply ignored him, hunching over to write some sappy poem rather than argue.

 

"Wannabe conformist." Firkle whispered just barely audible enough to hear. Making Stan want to crawl under the table and hide. 

 

Micheal rolled his eyes, gently reaching across the table and touching Stan's wrist in a rare display of human affection. Which was a big deal for a goth. "It's whatever man. Just don't let his Starbucks selfie taking ass influence you. Kay?" He raised his brows. Stan sighed, relieved that they were moving on from the whole ordeal.

 

"Got it." 

**Author's Note:**

> Feedback. Gimme feedback. I feed off of it like a zombie does to a person on TWD.


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